


The Cold Is Not My Home

by Kina



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kina/pseuds/Kina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki travels to Jötunheimr searching for answers.  He gets more than he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold Is Not My Home

**Author's Note:**

> This started a long while ago after I saw a prompt for Laufey and Loki meeting up and Loki discovering his true parentage. (Although, for the life of me I can’t find the actual prompt! Gah!)  
> I told myself I wouldn’t post this until I was absolutely satisfied with it… but I’ve reread it, rewrote/reworded it, and reedited it about a billion times, and I think this is about as satisfying as it’s going to get. (-_-) Anyway, enjoy!

Loki takes one of the many pathways known only to him—and perhaps Heimdall—to arrive at his destination.  He’s sure to cloak himself completely to avoid any prying eyes, for it would not do well for this particular trip to be seen… especially since his brother was just stripped of his powers and banished to Miðgarðr for trying to start war with the very place he’s headed.

~

Cold creeps in and chills his body as soon as he touches down in the dilapidated remains of what once must have been a glorious temple, the icy wasteland known as Jötunheimr spread out all around him.  He glances up from his crouched position.  His arrival has been noticed.  There aren’t many Jötunn inside the temple itself, but he feels even more eyes boring into him from elsewhere. 

“You are either very brave or very stupid, little Æsir,” one of the giants to his right says. 

“Neither,” he replies, standing ramrod straight in an attempt at minimizing the difference in height—though there’s nothing he can do about the difference in the giant’s bulkiness in comparison with his slenderness.  “I am here to speak to your king.”

The creature sitting atop what looks suspiciously like a throne of ice stirs.  “You led my men to their deaths in Odin’s vault, not to mention the deaths caused by your brother and his friends.  Tell me, why shouldn’t I kill you where you stand?”

“I am truly sorry for your losses, but I really must speak with you.  It is a matter of utmost importance.” 

He hasn’t missed the way Laufey’s gaze has been on him since the time he appeared.  Every move he’s made, every word he’s said has been perceived closely with curiosity rather than malice.  Even the frost giant’s words and the threat made at his life weren’t spoken in anything but a conversational tone.  Loki’s just hoping he can keep up the king’s curiosity long enough for him to ask his questions and get answers.

As those crimson eyes meet his own, he knows that this is the deciding factor.  He keeps their gazes locked.  Years of practice have made it child’s play to steal away emotions he doesn’t want seen, and he easily conceals any disgust he might have towards those red eyes, instead filling his gaze with determination and stubbornness.  Laufey’s the one who breaks eye contact.

“Leave us,” he tells the other Jötunn in the room.  There’s protest at first, but they eventually leave—their eyes narrowed at him with malicious intent that would make a weaker man quake.  The frost giant seated above him keeps his gaze elsewhere until the prince can no longer feel any gaze upon him.  Then, the king’s attention turns back to him.

“Come closer, child.”  
  
Unbidden, Loki does.  His pulse thunders through his veins, eyes widening with panic, because he’s not in control of his body anymore.  He feels the tendrils of magic forcing his legs forward, and he yells inside his mind for his body to keep still, but it’s just no use.  
  
He can feel the chill radiating from the Jötunn king’s skin as he draws closer.  The air he breathes becomes riddled with fog as he exhales.  Briefly he wishes that he hadn’t come here, but that thought vanishes as quickly as it came when he remembers his purpose in being here.  He fights the panic down into something more manageable. 

 At last his legs come to a stop when he’s within reaching distance.  At this range, he can clearly make out the markings on the giant’s skin.  If he wasn’t so riddled with fear—which he would never admit to—, he might find himself morbidly fascinated by them—for he’s always wondered about their purpose.  
  
He flinches when a cold hand touches his cheek.  Immediately, cold seeps into his flesh.  He can feel the cold spread down to his very bones, and then just as suddenly it goes away.  Confused, he opens his eyes —which he hadn’t realized he’d closed—, and looks to the giant in front of him.  He sees a very thoughtful look on his face and then what could only be called a smirk.  The giant’s other hand grasps his arm tightly, and he jerks in surprise.    
  
His eyes travel down to his own arm where the skin has been mottled blue and raised designs are etched, as if woven into his very skin.  He tries to yank his arm back, but the hold on him is solid.  He watches in horror as the blue pigment spreads further, slipping beneath his clothing where he cannot see—but he knows it’s still spreading; he can **feel** it.  
  
When he looks back up at the giant, he’s surprised to see an almost tender expression on the face he’d swear was carved from ice.  Then their eyes meet, and in those red orbs he sees a pair as equally crimson staring back.  He shuts his eyes; his worst fears all but confirmed.  
  
The cold hand is back on his cheek, but it doesn’t feel cold any longer.  “Odin stole many things from us at the end of that war so long ago.”  He pauses for but a moment, and Loki’s curious enough to look back up at the giant before him.  “I had thought you dead.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” he says slowly, enunciating each word with more care than is needed.  He hates to admit such a thing, but it’s _true_.  
  
“Loki Odinson — the mother of monsters, liesmith, disgrace of all gods and men.”  
  
The raven-haired god snarls and yanks himself free from the other’s touch.   
  
“Did I offend you?”  Amusement is clear in Laufey’s voice.  “Don’t worry, for I care not what others call you.  It is of little importance to me.”  
  
“What do you want?”  He snaps, temper rising and fear subsiding.   
  
“I want many things,” the giant says dismissively.  Their eyes meet once more, and Loki feels a chill run down his spine at the malicious glean in the giant’s eyes.  “Would you like to know why you take on the appearance of a Jötunn when touched by jötnar?”  
  
He doesn’t want to admit it, least of all to the king of Jötunheimr, but the curiosity is burning a hole through his mind.  This is why he came, after all.  That rampant thirst for knowledge that’s been present since he was but a boy demands answers, and really, who better to ask than a Jötunn himself?  Although, rationally, he knows he can’t very well trust Laufey.  Who’s to know if he’ll speak the truth or not?  Still, he wants answers. 

“Tell me.”

The grin those words bring forth nearly splits the other’s face in two.  It’s unnerving to say the least.  Laufey leans forward and raises his hand up once more, this time nestling his fingers intimately in the god’s hair.   With a voice uncharacteristically tender, he says, “You are my son, Loki.”

He had not been expecting that.  He flinches and pulls away, the hand touching him relenting without pause.  He inhales sharply, and he can feel his eyes widening drastically. 

It’s not true.  It **can’t** be true.

“You lie,” he growls after a moment’s pause. 

“What reason have I to lie?”

There’s amusement in the giant’s voice, and it sets Loki’s teeth on edge.  He sets his shoulders and rises up to full height, but even still he’s dwarfed by the sheer size of the giant sitting before him.  His mind is awhirl with thoughts —memories. 

He’s not blind to the way the Æsir look at him, nor is he deaf to the names they whisper.  He knows they look down upon him for his gift in the magics, his fair appearance, and his svelte frame.  He’s always felt different, been treated different by the other Æsir on Ásgarðr—but he’s Odin’s son, so that’s always granted him some protection.  But this trip to Jötunheimr has thrown all of those insecurities and doubts that he’s kept locked away deep inside him right back to the forefront of his mind.  In his mind’s eye he sees when his skin first came in contact with the flesh of a Jötunn—how his skin hadn’t been ravaged by frostbite, but rather had morphed into the same hideous guise as his captor’s.  It was really all the proof he needed.

“How do I know I am what you say I am?  How can I trust you?”

The frost giant’s lips curl into something halfway between a grin and a snarl.  “What reason have I to lie?”

When no reply comes, Laufey seems to consider him for a moment before something flashes in his eyes—something there and gone too fast for Loki to identify, even though he was watching for it.  “Return to Ásgarðr, princeling, and once you’ve returned, seek out the Casket of Ancient Winters.  Touch it, and you will have your answer.  If you are anything but a Jötunn, then you will be burnt as soon as your flesh comes in contact with the Casket.”

Loki narrows his eyes.  “That’s it?”

“It would appear that words are meaningless here.  Since there is nothing I can say to convince you, this is the only way.  Of course, you could always ask The All-Father, but I see no reason why he should choose to end this charade of his now when he’s been lying to you all these years.”

After a moment’s consideration, the prince nods—more to himself than the creature before him.  If he plans it just right, then he can make sure Odin is alerted to his presence in the palace’s vault in time enough to save him should this all prove to be a trick.  And if it all proves to be true… well, the All-Father will be there to answer any questions he may have. 

With that final thought, he departs.  He can’t stand the cold of Jötunheimr for even a second more.

~

As Loki sits atop the throne—the All-Father having fallen into a rather ill-timed Odin-Sleep—one thought repeats itself in his mind like a mantra: Odin _lied_. 


End file.
